


In Lieu of Cake

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Confinement, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Interrogation, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Secrets, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kidnapping changes things between His Royal Highness Prince Arthur of Camelot and Merlin Wyllt, his irreverent valet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Clock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Polomonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/gifts).



> Dear Polomonkey, belated congratulations on your bingo blackout! As you will see, your prompt ran away with me (to some odd places) to the tune of 10k, so please accept my apologies along with my thanks for the inspiration. Thanks, too, for being so lovely and patient. I hope this tale helps scratch that hurt/comfort itch.

**_Tuesday morning_ **

Arthur is up early, pacing the fencing room at the palace, wondering where he'd gone wrong – why he hadn't been followed yesterday, as he'd hoped, so Elyan and Gwaine could get a look at the bastards – when he receives a text alert on his private number. The message is from Gaius, and consists of a single word: _Accept_

He blows out a frustrated breath. He doesn’t know why the old physician bothers texting when he's such rubbish at it. He's still staring fixedly at his mobile screen, waiting for the rest of the message when the phone rings. It's an unknown caller.

"Oh for – " he says aloud, then accepts the call, silently apologising to Gaius.

"Hello?"

 _"Arthur Pendragon?"_

A man's voice, Arthur notes. Heavy Scots accent. Evidently not fussed about proper terms of address. "Speaking."

_"I believe I've found something that belongs to you."_

"Go on," Arthur says curtly, already striding towards the double French doors. He's been expecting this, hoping for it, to be honest, because a ransom demand – any sort of demand – means he can go over his uncle's head and finally get a proper investigation going, publicity be damned.

_"I'm sending you a location. When you see it, I think you'll know why I say – proceed with caution. Bring only those who are loyal to you, those you trust with your secrets, as well as your life."_

"Hang on, just what –"

 _"Good luck, laddie,"_ the man breaks in. _"And look after him. He's our future, too."_

"What is the meaning of – bloody _hell!_ " Arthur glares at his phone, realising the man's ended the call. He thinks this might be the first time in his life anyone has dared hang up on him, apart from his father of course. And Merlin.

Arthur flings a door open, gesturing for his men to join him as the new text alert comes through. There's no proper street address, just the city and postcode, but he doesn't need one to recognise the location pinned on the map.

"Fuck," he mutters. " _Fuck._ " 

He's going to tear that bloody place to the ground – with his own hands, if need be. When he's king he'll order it burnt off the maps, and Merlin to be wrapped in cotton wool and stashed in a palace cupboard whenever he's not working.

It's not until they're speeding off in the Land Rovers, Arthur briefing his men on the building's layout and access points – or what he recalls of them from youthful explorations – that it occurs to him that there can be no coincidence here. 

Whoever has Merlin, and for whatever reason, they must have ties to the Crown.

* * *

**_Four days ago_ **

One minute Merlin's licking the crumbs of a cheekily spiced chocolate torte and a delicate orange sponge cake off their respective tasting forks; in the next, the wallpaper's bursting and bleeding its colours all over the shop, Merlin's bones seem to have gone walkabout, and his head feels like a melon that's been injected with a large quantity of vodka.

 _Poison!_ his lagging, unhelpful brain supplies as he slumps over the counter.

A brute in a motorcycle helmet – definitely not Mary the baker – appears from the back. He deftly secures Merlin's arms, gloves him, and tapes his mouth before forcing an empty flour sack over his head. He says nothing. No threats. No explanations. Not even a classic gangster, "Someone wants a word with you," as he slings Merlin over his shoulder, totes him outside and bundles him into the back of a vehicle.

Perhaps Merlin's seen too many crime dramas, but he feels strongly that being abducted in such a fashion merits some sort of sneering exposition.

* * *

Pain-wise, the gloves are the worst of it – the burning stab of a thousand needles as Merlin's surging magic is checked and pushed back, dissipating across nerve endings – but it's the drugs that freak him out.

As the vehicle speeds along, he knows he's supposed to be paying attention – counting turns, listening for clues – or plotting his escape, but it seems like far too much work. The backs of his eyelids are showing funny shapes, everything's spinning, his mouth still tastes of cake, and it all seems hilarious. Ridiculous. 

"Something," as His Royal Highness would say, "that would only happen to you."

Merlin's last joined-up thought before he blacks out is that he really hopes this is about ransom or intel rather than some kinky serial killer thing. He'd be mortified for the prince to learn that he'd been lured into a kinky serial killer's clutches while cake tasting. Especially cake tasting for the surprise party that Gwen and the Princess Royal insist Arthur will never admit he wants, but secretly does.

Merlin's vaguely aware that his priorities are fucked up. However, he thinks they might have been so long before the poison kicked in, at least where Arthur is concerned.

* * *

When he comes to, he's lying on his side, propped against a wall. There's padding beneath him and bright light overhead. A digital display in the opposite wall reads 10:54.

His muzzy brain lurches immediately to _Bomb!_ but as he struggles to sit up the display changes over to 10:55 – then, after a bit, 10:56. He slumps back against the wall. _Clock._

As the panic fades, Merlin takes stock. He's still gagged, gloved and bound – still a bit woozy from the drugs – but otherwise unhurt. The most disturbing thing, apart from the prickling sensation of his suppressed magic, is that someone's stripped him of his clothing and shoes while he was unconscious and replaced them with a set of scrubs and neoprene socks. 

The thin mattress he's on occupies one corner of a room – roughly square, with high ceilings, pale green walls, and gleaming tile floor in a nondescript grey. One door. No windows. Stainless steel toilet and washbasin combi-unit in the corner to his left.

And that's about it, save for Merlin himself – and the clock in the wall, the digital display a garish splash of electric red amidst the institutional tedium. 10:59 now. 

Merlin gets his knees under him and stands, intending to examine the room in more detail. Before he takes two steps the display changes over to 11:00, there is a loud _ker-thunk,_ and the door opens. He's almost grateful he's still gagged, so he doesn't give away how rattled he is by who walks in.

He flinches when they rip off the tape, but says nothing. He figures it's his best bet until he knows what the fuck is going on.

* * *

"Who is Emrys?"

"Where is Emrys?"

"What is Emrys' plan?"

It's the same three questions every time. Same questions, different interrogators – the rubber masks and voice changers don't fool Merlin. 

Every hour, on the hour, the door is unlocked and one of them walks in – cartoonish visage of King Uther of the sort sold in all the tourist shops, white lab coat, burgundy scrubs – trailing behind a pair of hulking Not Nurses. The latter never speak. They wear scrubs, too, along with surgical gloves and full-face helmets with tinted visors. They creep Merlin out, but it's the Uthers who truly frighten him. 

Long ago, back in his village, he'd cut pictures of the royal family from gossip magazines. He'd kept them under his pillow, dreamt of having the King for his father-in-law one day. Of course, this had been before he was allowed to watch the weekly broadcasts from the palace. Before he'd seen the executions, and fully understood the why of them.

He finds it odd that, while it's clear his captors know he has magic, they haven't formally accused him of it under the Articles, nor threatened to burn him alive. 

He tentatively crosses the King's personal security detail and Camelot's Anti-Magic Task Force off his mental list of suspects – which leaves him with friends of the Crown seeking favour, enemies of the Crown seeking advantage, Druid extremists, or mercenaries hired by any and all of the above.

Of course, the whole Emrys shtick could simply be a smokescreen for someone with a sick sense of humour and a personal grudge, in which case… 

Well, it would take an awfully long time for Merlin to think through everyone who might wish him ill, starting with the Widow Simmons. He hopes he's not going to be here for an awfully long time.

* * *

"Who is Emrys?"

"Where is Emrys?"

"What is Emrys' plan?"

Five hours of respite, from 20:00 to 01:00, then it begins again. Lights on. Door opens. Chair and portable gas cylinder brought in by the Not Nurses – sometimes water and a bit of food, too. The Uther sits in the chair. Merlin is made to stand. At least until whichever Uther it is gets sick of his silence and orders the Not Nurses to administer the gas.

He studies the Uthers before he goes under, gives them silly nicknames based on his observations: Cut a Bitch, Catwalk, Posh Git, Tweaker, Butch. He tells himself that it will help him remember, for when he's debriefed. 

He tells himself that it'll help keep his mind sharp, his spirits up – anything to preserve the narrative that he will get out of this, that he _will_ be debriefed, that there's a point to all this besides him being tortured and held captive in this bright, empty room.

* * *

The gas wears off after fourteen to twenty-one minutes. He knows this because when he comes to, he's back on the mattress – always back on the mattress – propped on his side, facing the wall with the bloody clock.

The room isn't really empty, he concedes, not literally. That's the fear talking. The stress. Gaius says he can be a bit of a drama queen when he's stressed. Arthur's said this, too, but Merlin had deftly filed that one under "pot, kettle" and forgot all about it until now.

Once the chemical fog lifts completely, Merlin takes stock. Again. Just to see if there have been any changes.

Mattress – glued to the floor – and rubber blanket that cannot be twisted into a rope; toilet and washbasin – securely bolted; immovable walls, ceiling, floor. Four caged-in 6-bulb light banks and one small vent high – too high – overhead. No switches inside, no pipes or exposed sockets. No windows. One solid metal door, electrified – administers mild to moderate shocks. One digital clock set into the wall with a clear, shatterproof cover bolted on over the glass.

And, last but not least, Merlin himself: still gloved, the steady prickle and gnawing of suppressed magic worse than the hunger pains; still bound, though they've been cuffing his arms in front since he pissed himself; still dressed in neoprene socks and the same burgundy scrubs as his captors.

This, too, he finds odd. Chilling. Add a pair of boots and a helmet and he could pass for one of the Not Nurses, which means they're not worried about him escaping and – even more chilling – that they've no need to outwardly mark him as different or otherwise dehumanise him in order to carry out their orders. Professionals, then. Or psychopaths.

He comes to the same sobering conclusion he did last hour, and the one before that. There's no fight here that he can win.

* * *

Staring at the clock, waiting for the next round of questioning, Merlin silently apologises to everyone who's counting on him, who expect such great things. And he apologises to Arthur – to Arthur most of all, if he's honest – who _doesn't_ expect great things, because he thinks Merlin's just his bumbling valet, but who seems to value his opinion regardless. Some of the time, at any rate.

He wonders if the prince is worried by his absence or simply annoyed, and what stories are being spun by palace PR. They'll be keeping it quiet for now, no doubt, assuming drink or drugs or some other personal indiscretion. Discreetly checking in with his mum, Gaius, his mates. Searching his lodgings at the palace and his…

 _Oh fuck._

Merlin blinks, then sits up, his heart hammering in his chest. Why didn't he think of that before? Borden might have had backers, associates… 

But, no. If his captors only wanted him out of the way so they could retrieve the egg, surely they would have found it by now and released him – or killed him outright, if revenge was part of the plan.

Merlin struggles to his feet, panicked. He can't do this anymore. He needs to get the fuck out of here before anyone from the palace searches his flat in town. 

He needs to get the fuck out of here while there's still a chance he _has_ a life to go back to. If Arthur or the King ever discover the truth about Ashkanar's tomb…

* * *

When the next Uther comes through the door – Posh Git, the one who sprawls in the chair and commands the Not Nurses with impatient hand gestures, flashing heavy ring marks and manicured nails – Merlin is waiting, standing in the centre of the room.

Instead of gulping down the water he's given, he takes a careful sip.

"Who is Emrys?" 

Merlin swallows, staring into the mask's eyeholes. "I am," he says. He doesn't recognise his own voice.

Posh Git Uther snorts. "Don't try and play games with us, boy. Who is Emrys?"

"I am," Merlin insists, forcing himself to smile. He tilts his head, indicating each of the people in the room. "As are you. And her, and him. Emrys is here, in all of us, if only we be– "

At a gesture – a forefinger slashed across Posh Git Uther's throat – the water's knocked from Merlin's hand by the male Not Nurse. The other grabs him around the face, putting pressure on his windpipe and gagging him with her gloved palm.

Merlin immediately goes lax, offering no resistance as he's forced to his knees. After a long pause, Posh Git Uther gestures the pair of them to back off. 

"And what, pray tell, is Emrys' plan?" he says, leaning back, legs crossed at the ankles.

Merlin clears his throat. "To ensure magic a worthy place in this land." 

"By what means?"

Skivvying, heartache, subterfuge, and a whole lot of aggravation, is what Merlin wants to say, but it's far too honest. Too intimate. "Friendship," he says stiffly. Then, as that still sounds oddly informal, he adds, "Alliance. Service to the Crown."

"Emrys seeks an alliance with the King?" The voice changer flattens out the surprise, but Merlin can hear it nonetheless, can see it in the sudden shift in the man's demeanour. He sits up straight, pulling his legs beneath him.

"No, not at present," Merlin replies, sticking to his vague truths. He can almost hear the gears spinning behind the mask. "Emrys looks… I mean, _I_ look to the future. As we all should."

"I see." Posh Git Uther jerks his head and the Not Nurses haul him up. "Well, thank you, Mister Wyllt, that will be all."

"It will? I mean, I – " Merlin shuts his mouth. He can't believe that's all it took, but he's not going to question it. He holds out his hands as best he's able. "Please, the cuffs… Could you remove them? They're really not necessary."

Posh Git Uther's normal laugh, Merlin expects, is not the most pleasant of sounds; rendered by the voice changer, it's truly horrible. "That will be all for _now_ ," he says, giving another nod. 

He's held fast as the male Not Nurse unhooks the face mask from the mobile gas cylinder unit and forces it over his nose and mouth. Before he succumbs, he hears, "Keep him under until you hear from myself or Alpha. And summon the Catha. We may need…"

* * *

The next time he wakes, Merlin sees that hours have passed, not minutes. He's still cuffed, but there is a protein bar and a full, uncapped bottle of water on the floor beside his mattress, which he counts as a good sign. They've never left him anything before.

He drinks, eats, shuffles over to the toilet to pee. As the next hour-mark approaches he waits in the centre of the room, but no one appears. The lights go out at 20:00.

He paces in the dark for a while, going over everything he knows and everything he doesn't, trying to sort through the strands of possible escape plans until he's worn out by the useless wheel of his own thoughts. He returns to the mattress and eventually falls into a fitful sleep. 

He dreams of Ashkanar's tomb, of dust and stone raining down on his head, of Borden's dying screams and Arthur's foul temper on the plane home from what was supposed to be a routine heritage site visit.

* * *

The lights come on at 01:00, startling Merlin awake. His eyes snap to the door, but it doesn't open. He gets up and paces, watching the minutes add up to nothing, piling on more of the same.

Still the door remains shut. He tries telling himself that any break in the routine, like the water and food, should be considered a good thing. 

After sixty-seven minutes he pees again, more from nerves than real need, and lies back down, curling into a ball and burrowing his head under one corner of the rubber blanket. 

The smell reminds him of past country weekends, of being dragged all over the highlands stalking, fishing or bagging peaks with the gentry. Merlin loathes those weekends, but loves the look they put on the prince's face – loves the easy, open smiles, the bright eyes and shoulder nudges, the bracing weight of Arthur's hands at his back or on his arms, the murmur of, "Easy now. There, you've got it."

"Easy now," Merlin whispers, squeezing his eyes shut, but it's not the same. Arthur hadn't brought him along on the last country weekend – hasn't brought him along much of anywhere of late, not since the botched trip to the tomb – and it hurts, much in the same way his useless magic does. He wonders just when he got addicted to those moments between them.

"Easy now," he repeats as tears escape and start sliding across his cheeks. "Easy now, Merlin. You've got this."

* * *

He's awakened by one of the Not Nurses dragging him off the mattress; the other sloshes a bucket of icy water over his face. A glance at the clock shows him that it's 03:37. Cut a Bitch Uther, with her fierce boots and athletic swagger, is standing just inside the door, watching him splutter. The chair and gas cylinder are nowhere to be seen.

He tries on a manic smile. "Oh, hello! Are you the Catha? You're early…or is it late? Hard to tell, really. They didn't give me your timetable."

"Who's the man in blue?" 

"What?!"

She strides forward, until she's practically standing over Merlin. "Blue hoodie. Ski mask. He work for Emrys too?"

He tries to scoot back onto a drier section of the floor. "I don't… Please, I told you, _I'm_ Emrys, and no one works for me. I've no idea – "

"Get him up," she interrupts. Bending down, the Not Nurses each take an arm and haul Merlin to his feet. She extracts a small tablet computer from her lab coat pocket, does a furious bit of tapping and swiping, and holds it up to his face.

It's a video still of a figure at an upper-storey window. Blue hoodie, black balaclava, aviators over the eyeholes. One gloved hand is pressed against the glass, fingers spread wide.

Merlin shakes his head. "I don't under…" He trails off, attention caught by the decorative brickwork around the window. "But that's my – "

"We know. I asked who it is. What's he doing in your flat? Who's he signalling to?"

"I don’t know, I swear. But whoever it is, it's nothing to do with Emrys." He only prays it's someone who wants to sell the egg rather than destroy it, as at least that buys him time. He'd meant to move it somewhere safer – Gaius had warned him numerous times – but it had made him happy having it in the flat.

There's a harsh sound, a snort or short bark of laughter. "Because _you're_ Emrys, is that it?"

"Yes."

She slips the tablet back in her pocket, shaking her head. The mask's far too big on her; the movement makes Uther's chin and jowls crumple, as if his face is trying to eat itself. "Very well," she says. "If that's how you want to play."

"Why keep me gloved if you don't believe me?" Merlin blurts out, lifting his bound arms. "Take them off and I'll prove it."

"Oh, we know you practice magic, Mister Wyllt, if a very childish sort." She reaches out, cupping a calloused hand to his cheek, slapping it when he tries to flinch away. "Still, can't have you setting things on fire or conjuring smoke ponies for your own amusement."

"How did you know about…who _are_ you people, anyway?" Merlin feels utterly on the wrong foot, confused by the unexpected line of questioning and jumble of new information. If they know about the smoke ponies, that means they've been watching him for months, _years_.

She clucks her tongue and takes a step back. "Also, if you must know, Sarrum Industries is paying us very good money for our feedback on that particular glove model. They've not yet been approved for long-term use, you see. So you're doing double duty as a test subject and fundraiser for our cause." 

Merlin lunges, snarling, but the Not Nurses hold him fast. Cut a Bitch Uther turns and strides towards the door. Before she exits the room, she looks over her shoulder, saying, "Oh. Speaking of tests, the Catha will be with you shortly. I'm told it will hurt less if you cooperate."

* * *

The Catha turns out to be a stocky bald man in a three-piece suit and flat cap. His assistant is a super-sized version of the same. They arrive at 04:17 with a new chair, a folding soft-sided affair that seems like an ordinary camp chair until Merlin's pushed into it and suddenly feels as if his bones have turned to lead.

At first he's preoccupied by the fact that neither man wears a mask – never a good thing, according to every hostage film he's seen – but as they remove their caps and jackets and roll up their sleeves, it sinks in that the chair is _magic_. 

His own tethered magic is responding to it, the prickling becoming an outright itch under his skin. There's a growing buzz in his ears and pressure behind his eyes. He gasps. 

"You, you're using – "

"Easy now," the assistant cuts in, crouching down to hold his arms while one of the Not Nurses removes the handcuffs. Merlin flinches at the words, wants to shove them back down the man's throat because they aren’t his to say, and Merlin can't afford to think of comfort now – can't afford to think of Arthur.

In his distress, he only vaguely notes the curious tattoos on the assistant's hands. But once the Not Nurses are dismissed and the Catha draws near, Merlin notices that he has them, too, only on his neck. Little dashes and wonky hash marks ringing his throat, making it look as if his head's been stitched on. Merlin's sure he's seen that before.

"My name is Alator, of the Catha. I am here to assess your magic and reveal your truth." The man speaks slowly, taking pains to enunciate around a thick Scots accent, as if Merlin's a child in hospital. He's got intense eyes in a kindly face – and that, too, seems familiar. 

It's not until Alator reaches up to lay a hand on his assistant's shoulder, however, that the memory shakes loose. The man standing beside Gaius in that old photograph – from the secret album, pictures saved from destruction after the Queen's death. He'd had more hair then, and fewer tattoos, but Merlin had still noticed them, had asked Gaius about the man with the stitched-on head. 

"Orn is going to remove the gloves now," Alator is saying. "And I won’t lie to you, it will hurt, but after that it's up to you. Resist and there'll be pain. Obey, reveal your secrets freely, and I'll tread as lightly as I can."

"Wait!" Merlin cries as the assistant crouches over him once more. "Wait, did they tell you who I am?"

Alator flashes a patient smile. "I know who you claim to be. As to who you truly are… That, laddie, is part of why I'm here. Shall we begin?" He taps the spot between his eyes. "You'll feel me up here."

Merlin can't think, can't breathe, can't make sense of anything anymore. His magic's roiling inside him, as if it knows how wrong the world's gone when after being kidnapped by a pack of faux Uthers he's about to be tortured by Alator, former High Priest of the Old Religion – the same High Priest whom Gaius had once counted as a friend and who, along with the High Priestess, had been present at Arthur's birth.

"Arthur, he's…" he gets out as the gloves' wrist bindings are released. His hands are vibrating uncontrollably. They feel hot. Orn is scowling at them. "I serve…Once and Future. Ask Gaius. He knows – "

The pain steals the rest of the words. It's as if his skin's being ripped off in the midst of a sandstorm. His breath feels like fire in his chest. He opens his mouth to scream, and it comes out as a blistering roar of Dragon Tongue gibberish. 

"You," the Catha mouths, eyes going wide. "You're… _Damn!_ " He drops to his knees, head bowed, then raises his hands in the air and begins to chant. 

There is a crackling, whooshing sound as the room fills with a spray of white lightning. One instant Orn's holding the limp gloves in his hands; the next he's staggering back, flinging away handfuls of smoking ash. Merlin's tumbled roughly to the floor as the same fate befalls the chair, then his scrubs, and he realises that it's not the Catha's doing, that _he_ is the source of the power. His magic's leaking from his pores, coalescing and sparking, lashing out wildly.

"Get back!" he yells, watching in horror as lightning bursts from his side and arcs over to the corner, setting the mattress on fire. He rolls over as if to smother the magic, pressing his hands to the floor, but it doesn't help. "Please, get out, I can't control it – "

Then the Catha is in his head, telling him that he _can_ , saying: _Breathe, Emrys. Let go. Give it to me. Keep your power, but give me the pain, the anger. It's what I am trained for._

He feels a heavy, soothing presence behind his eyes – a pulsing, living thing that feels as ancient as any magic he's ever encountered. On instinct he tries to breathe in time with it, and a delicious numbness starts to spread throughout his body. His eyes cloud over, until he's seeing the room, not as it is, but in the hyper-real colours of his dreams.

As the last of the wild magic surges within him, he twists onto his side and lifts his hands. He gathers the lightning and aims it at the garish splash of electric red, reducing the clock to a smoking hole in the wall.

Just before he blacks out, Merlin hears the _ker-thunk_ of the door opening, boots rushing in and a cacophony of voices – Alator's angry burr the only one he recognises, shouting, "Oh, I'll tell you _exactly_ what's happened, lassie! Those new suppression gloves are shite, pure Amatian shite. You're lucky…" 

In his head, he hears Orn the assistant's voice – urgent, shaken: _Apologies, Emrys. We didn’t know. We cannot take you with us now, but help will come. My master swears it._

* * *

**_Tuesday evening_ **

Merlin wakes in the dark, shivering violently. There's a pounding in his head, in the walls. He aches…everywhere. He's not on his side, definitely not on his mattress. He has no idea what time it is because there are no glowing red numbers before his eyes. 

He broke the clock, he remembers. He broke the clock and burnt the mattress; he's lying on the floor amidst the ashes. He rolls over, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them for warmth.

How could he have been so stupid? He's ruined everything. He's stuck here forever now, trapped in the dark; without the clock, the lights can never go on, and the door will never open. 

He wonders if he should try and explain this to whoever's pounding on the walls.

"It's not time," he says, wincing at the pain in his throat. He tries swallowing, but there's no spit. The pounding continues. He hugs himself tighter as the sounds get louder, breaking apart into shouts and a deafening _ker-thunk._

"It's not time," he whispers as the door opens, and a beam of golden torchlight spills across the floor.

"Merlin? _Merlin!_ Gwaine, I've found him. He's in here!"

Boots. Hands. Boots can lie, but hands don't and Merlin heaves a dry sob when he sees familiar fingers, scars, rings in the glow of the torchlight – hears Arthur's voice sudden and up close, saying, "Easy now, Merlin. I've got you."

* * *


	2. In Time

**_Wednesday_ **

Arthur knows he's making everyone nervous, but he can't leave. His mind's reeling from all he's seen and heard; he knows that there's much yet to do, crucial decisions to be made – that he's not helping anyone by pacing Merlin's flat like a caged beast – but he can't leave. 

"Do whatever you have to do," he'd told Gaius after they'd got Merlin cleaned up, and had first seen the full extent of his injuries. "Anything, understand? Full immunity from punishment under the Articles."

Gaius had given him the eyebrow and nodded, but he hadn't promised anything as he'd chivvied Arthur from the room.

It's Hunith who finally takes pity on him, appearing in the bedroom doorway and gesturing for him to enter. "Come, Your Royal Highness," she says. "So long as you're here, you can lend a hand."

It's she who puts him to work, she who gives up her seat by Merlin's bedside without fuss when Arthur's presence proves more effective at calming him than any spell or sedative. 

Before she leaves for work, she looks Arthur in the eye and says, "Gaius, I don't believe he would ever harm my boy, and the lies aren't doing either of them a lick of good. Tell him what he needs to know."

 ** _Friday_**

Arthur sits in the chair beside the bed, passing the worn, skin-warmed metal disc from palm to palm and watching looped footage of the smoking rubble of Tintagel House. He's got the television muted so as not to disturb Merlin's rest, but he doesn’t need to hear the talking heads or read the crawl to know what's being said. 

Massive explosion in the night. Total collapse. No known casualties as yet, thank god – the Crown lists the property as unoccupied – but still, shocking loss of an important piece of Camelot's heritage. Older viewers might recall that it was a noted hospital before the Purge, Royal Infirmary Four, that the Crown Prince himself was born there shortly before it was repurposed as an asylum for victims of magic.

What the talking heads do not say, for fear of losing their jobs – and, Arthur acknowledges, perhaps even their lives – is that it's widely known that it wasn't just the victims of magic who disappeared behind those pale brick walls. Suspected perpetrators and their families were brought in as well, including, oddly enough, various dissidents with no known ties to the magic community. Odder still, they always confessed. 

Morgana had dared him to spend the night there once, when he was ten, shortly after it was decommissioned. Despite the lonely horror of it, he'd snuck in several more times as a teen, trying to reconcile the official histories with those strange, empty rooms and Morgana's whispered stories, appalling boarding school gossip and disturbing things she claimed to have seen in her dreams.

Arthur rubs his thumb over the smooth ridge of the dove's wing and down its back, flips the brooch round, slides it over to his other hand, flips it again. He hopes his mother can rest easier now, wherever she is. He's more certain than ever that she would have wanted no part in what was done in her name.

"Oh, that's…very thorough." 

Arthur starts at Merlin's voice, instinctively clenching the brooch in his fist as he glances over. Merlin's managed to shove the eye mask up onto his forehead despite his heavily bandaged hands. He's watching the footage with an expression that matches his tone – distant, distressingly polite. Arthur wonders if he's been awake this whole time.

"Yes," Arthur says. "And long overdue." He slips the brooch into his pocket and shifts his gaze back to the telly. It's easier this way. Merlin seems more comfortable when he's not the sole focus of attention, and Arthur feels less likely to do or say something inappropriate when he's not staring down the evidence of his cousin's crimes.

"And the bodies, did you leave them, or…?"

"No. They're being repatriated, quietly. Lance is handling it." 

The guards who'd been killed in the rescue had had Blood Army tats and Escetian ID in their boots, a fact Arthur had kept from his father. The last thing Camelot needs right now is a recurrence of old border hostilities, or any hint of a play for the throne. Cenred himself would have posed a greater problem, but Morgause had sacrificed him in her attempt to escape, and whatever spell she'd used hadn't left much behind.

Neither had the mines his security team had placed at the tunnel exits.

"Oh," Merlin says after a moment. "That's good. Sending Lance, I mean. He's hard to dislike."

Arthur grunts in acknowledgement, because it's true, but he can't help the quick, irrational stab of jealousy. He sneaks another sideways glance, but there's been no change in Merlin's expression. He sighs, deciding he might as well share the rest.

"Leon and his team are still going through what we recovered from the site, but we haven't any definitive proof regarding the identities of the other interrogators. Looks like they were all in and out for their shifts, using the old tunnels. On paper there's a limited number of people with access, but…"

The truth is, as Arthur well knows, that any kid with a crowbar could have got in, whether from outbuildings on the surrounding estate or any number of public buildings in Camelot's northwest quadrant. He'll bet his cousin knew this, too. Morgause may have been delusional, but she wasn't a fool.

"I'm sorry, Merlin. For now, the story is that it was a solo affair, apart from the hired muscle. 'Officially' you were interrogated because you knew my personal itinerary and vault codes."

"I didn't though," Merlin says vaguely, as if remarking on the weather. "Not your vault codes, anyway. Your uncle changed them all last month, after the break-in." 

"Yes." Arthur grips the armrests, willing himself to keep his eyes on the telly. "I thought it very odd he didn't mention that when I made my report to the King. He excused himself shortly thereafter, claimed he was feeling unwell. I suspect he might be preparing for an extended trip to the country."

After a moment's pause, he hears Merlin's soft, "I see. Good to know." 

They continue watching the muted news coverage, then a nature programme about owls. It's not an awkward silence, but not an easy one, either. Arthur's too aware of the brooch in his pocket, too aware of the scant metre of space between their bodies as compared to the vast gulf between what's in his heart and what he feels able to say.

He finally rouses himself when his stomach gives a loud rumble. Seeing that Merlin's either asleep – or feigning it – he switches the telly off, gently tugs the eye mask back down, and takes his brooding into the kitchen. He can't remember the last time he ate.

**_Saturday_ **

Merlin keeps his face angled away as Arthur sponges him down, staring out at the lashing rain. It's a miserable day, wet and windy, but Arthur's grateful for it, as the weather's got him out of two public appearances. Plus, it appears to be keeping Merlin from noticing his awkwardness. He doesn't always know where to rest his eyes or how gentle to be, gets lost in guilt as he navigates the maze of scabbing wounds on Merlin's torso and upper thighs. He catches himself going over the same areas repeatedly – clavicles, shoulders, underarms, knees – because he's working up the courage to move on to what's next. Sternum. Belly. Thighs. Hips. 

Or perhaps he just likes the shape of them under his hand.

"Was there…" Merlin says, and Arthur jerks his hand away. "Did you send someone to search my flat?" 

Arthur covers the sudden movement by wetting the sponge and wringing it out in the basin. Merlin's head is still turned towards the window, so Arthur can't get a proper read on his expression. He chooses his words carefully.

"Not search, no. Gaius let me in so I could…be seen." Checking that his hand is steady, Arthur resumes sponging Merlin's left leg. "We wanted to make it look as if a third party were involved, on the outside chance whoever had taken you still had eyes on the building. We hoped they'd be curious enough to follow me."

"The blue hoodie, that was…oh." Merlin turns his head back towards Arthur, but his gaze is still fixed in the middle distance, his voice oddly flat. "They were. Watching. They had video. I saw you at the window."

"Well we never saw them." It comes out harsher than Arthur had intended, causing Merlin to flinch.

"Sorry," Arthur mutters. He takes a deep breath before sponging another swath of bony shin. Merlin's body hair looks thicker when it's wet and smooths down like fine fur, except around his genitals, where it forms a springy mound. It's hard not to look there, especially when he has to help Merlin use the toilet.

He dunks the sponge again and wrings it out, wishing he could mop his own flaming face. He tries for levity instead, saying, "But rest assured, your secret stash of scarf fetish porn and shrine to the Princess Royal's toenail clippings are safe. Gaius made me promise not to snoop."

He waits for a laugh or soft snort that never comes. "Oh," Merlin says, turning face back towards the window. "That's good. Thank you."

He sighs inwardly and goes back to focussing on the parts of Merlin he _can_ reach. Gaius returns as he's finishing up; together they re-dress Merlin's wounds and help him back into his pyjamas. 

Arthur spends the afternoon and early evening in the bedside chair, toying with the brooch in his pocket and watching Merlin struggle in and out of sleep. He leaves without saying anything, again. 

**_Sunday_ **

Hunith arrives not long after Arthur, looking pink-cheeked at being escorted up by Gwaine. If she's surprised or put out at finding him at her son's flat yet again – rummaging in his fridge for milk, no less – she doesn't show it. 

"When's the party?" she says, poking her head in the kitchen. The table is now groaning under a massive floral arrangement; stacked crates of champagne tower beside it.

Arthur fumbles the fridge door closed. "Ah, yes. I'm afraid that's the Princess Royal's way of apologising."

"Dear lord. Whatever for?" Hunith pauses in shrugging off her coat, brows soaring in alarm. "She didn't have anything to with…?"

"No," Arthur reassures her. "Not intentionally. But she feels Merlin may have been targeted because of things she'd said. She and Morgause were… They became quite close during their military service. Or so Morgana thought. It seems my cousin was using her, largely to spite my father, but also for information."

"The poor girl."

"Livid, more like," Arthur says as he relieves her of her coat, though he suspects Hunith's right, and that there's a fair amount of heartbreak beneath the anger. "We're all keeping well away from the fencing room."

"Well, when it's safe to do so, pass on my regards." She pats his arm, giving him a sympathetic smile, and he's mortified to realise that he's been gossiping about family affairs, something he was brought up never to do – and has, to this date, only ever indulged in with Merlin.

"Of course," he murmurs. "Thank you. I… I'll just go hang this up."

When he returns, the milk's sitting out beside the sugar and box of teabags and Hunith's filling the electric kettle. 

"It looked like I'd interrupted you. I think tea's an excellent idea. Is Merlin awake?"

"No. He was snoring when I arrived, in fact, which Gaius assures me is a good sign." He catches the side-end of a smile.

"Right. I'll just look in on him, then perhaps we can take our tea in the living room?" 

"Oh, I…I don't mean to intrude. I promised I'd oversee the delivery, but I needn't stay, if you'd rather – "

"Nonsense," she says, patting him again as she slips by. That's twice she's touched him now, twice _anyone_ has touched him so casually all week.

* * *

It's surprisingly comfortable, sitting in Merlin's poky living room, on his poky sofa, sipping tea and chatting about nothing much – at least until Hunith sets her cup down with a heavy sigh.

"Merlin's father was a pilot before the Purge, did he tell you?"

Arthur shakes his head, stunned. All Merlin's ever said is that he'd never known the man. 

Hunith gives him a pained, searching look. "Well, I can’t help thinking… I know the Soldier's Code, but Merlin's no soldier. He was under no obligation to resist. If he'd told them who he was straight away, pretended he was on their side, then perhaps…" She trails off, biting her lip and wrapping her cardigan more tightly around herself.

Arthur looks down at the cup and saucer balanced on his knees, at his own hands, and at the oblong patches of daylight splashed across the carpet. All good and capable things, yet none of them can undo the past.

"I thought that, too, at first. But…" Leon's team had recovered some of Morgause's private journal entries. Clearly she'd been worse off than any of them had realised, obsessed with the old prophecies. "My cousin was convinced Emrys was working against her, that defeating him or her was the key to her success. I think it's fortunate she had no idea of the extent of Merlin's…abilities. She had no compunction about torturing her own kind. If she _had_ known, if she'd seriously believed he was Emrys… I'm sorry, but I don't think she would have bothered questioning him."

"But – " Hunith's eyes go wide and she presses a hand to her mouth with a soft, "Oh."

Arthur shifts his cup and saucer to a nearby table and, on instinct, scoots closer, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. He finds the brooch instead.

"Mrs Wyllt, I – "

"Hunith, please," she says, dropping her hand to his left arm and patting it absent-mindedly before taking his hand.

"Hunith, your son is… _Merlin_ is… Look, he may not be a soldier, but he's exceptionally brave, braver than many I've served with, to be honest. And clever, though I've never told him so." Arthur squeezes the brooch, giving the dove one last rub with his thumb. 

"When – if – I'm King, _all_ those who were responsible will face justice, and Merlin will be recognised on the Knights' List, but until then…" He turns Hunith's hand palm up and presses the brooch into it. "This belonged to my mother. It's her family crest."

She peers down at the piece, then extracts her hand from Arthur's, holding the brooch up and tilting the face to catch the light. "It's beautiful, dear." She tries handing it back. "But I can't keep it."

Arthur waves her off. "Please, you must. I know he'd never… I know it doesn’t change anything, but…" Frustrated, he looks away, eyes raking the crowded bookshelves and cluttered mantel. Above it, instead of the usual portrait of the King, there are several framed prints with fantasy themes; Arthur's never noticed before, but the one with the dragon is reminiscent of the Pendragon crest.

"I want you to know how much I appreciate his faith in me." He turns back to face Hunith, wondering why this seems harder than addressing war widows and orphans. "And in Camelot's future, despite all the wrongs that were done to families like yours."

Hunith blinks at him, then down at the brooch in her palm. She looks distinctly unimpressed. "My, my. So it's an apology then, as well as an award." She glances up, eyes narrowing shrewdly. "Is that all?" 

Arthur opens his mouth to ask what she means, but the way she is looking at him… 

He can't lie, not to her. He may not have the right words, but he won't lie. He swallows and, after what seems like a stifling eternity, shakes his head. 

"Ah, well now." A smile spreads slowly across her face. It melts the years off, makes the family resemblance plain. "Even more reason not to keep it. I'm entirely the wrong Wyllt, aren't I? Tell you what… You owe me no apology, but for the award I'll say thank you, on Merlin's behalf." She reaches for his hand again, this time cupping both of hers around it, dropping the brooch into his palm and holding it there. "Now why don't you hang onto this until you can put it to its true purpose, hm? I know things may seem impossible at the moment, but he's not going anywhere."

Arthur lifts his head in surprise. "But surely, after…He won't want to stay on at the palace?"

"I'd like to see you try and stop him, Your Royal Highness."

**_One week later_**

"What's that?"

Arthur starts guiltily, jerking his hand out of his pocket. Merlin is in the kitchen doorway, clinging gingerly to one jamb with his mitten-clad hands and looking at something on the table. 

"Hm? Ah, yes. That's a 'biscuit bouquet,' according to the note – one of a dozen you can expect this year, compliments of The Rising Bun. Evidently that baker feels terrible about you being poisoned in her shop."

"Wasn't her fault," Merlin mutters, yawning. "But I'm glad it's not cake." His lean frame's lost inside his baggy pyjama bottoms and voluminous dressing gown. He's missing the belt off the latter, and Arthur's eyes are drawn to where it gapes open, to the forked lines of pink scar tissue and wispy trails of dark hair.

Gaius has shared his theories – as well as leant him several banned books – but Arthur still has trouble wrapping his head around the idea of magic being innate, not to mention so powerful that prolonged suppression would cause such a backlash. Logically, he knows he should probably be terrified of Merlin, but all he can think about when he sees those scars is what he must have suffered.

Merlin clears his throat, hunching deeper into the dressing gown, and Arthur forces his eyes up. The ones that meet his are bleary and ringed in shadows, but for a moment they stay, looking _at_ Arthur instead of through him, and just like that he's breathing easier than he has in weeks.

Merlin blinks, yawns again.

"Should you really be out of bed?" Arthur says gently.

"Should you really be in my kitchen?" Merlin lets go of the jamb and makes an aborted attempt to scratch his chest, scowling down at his mittens. They're hand-knit, in a glaring shade of orange Hunith claims is cheerful. "Isn't today Lord Godwin's polo party?" 

It's said with more confusion than sass, but it's still backchat, and Arthur can't help but smile. He hides it in his shoulder as he pulls out a chair.

"Ah. Right. Well, as a matter of fact – " He collects Merlin from the doorway, ducking under one arm and wrapping his own around Merlin's back before he can protest that he doesn't need the support. " – I'm injured, you see. Freak climbing accident. Didn't Gaius tell you?" From the corner of his eye he can see Merlin frowning, cocking his head back as he tries to examine Arthur from this angle. 

"You look well enough," he mumbles.

Arthur settles him in the chair, withdrawing his arms as soon as he's able and retreating to his spot by the sink. "It's my wrist, _both_ wrists. Plus my ankles. Acute sprains all around, so no polo for me."

He's become horribly self-conscious about touching Merlin since his chat with Hunith. Something he'd once done without thought now feels glaring and awkward – dishonest, even – because he's so keenly aware of Merlin's body. He worries that he'll betray himself somehow, wonders how much is too much when his instinct's to never let go.

Merlin's still studying him, a dubious expression on his face. "Where're the bandages? Crutches?"

Arthur shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't need any. Like all royals, I've mastered the art of hovering slightly off the ground – only as needed, obviously – and my ligaments are…incredibly well-behaved."

Merlin blinks. His smile is slow in coming, and not nearly as bright as Arthur would like, but it's the first proper, unguarded one he's seen since the rescue, so by god he'll take it.

"Gave them an order, did you?"

"A formal decree."

"Which of course they jumped to obey…"

Arthur pulls a face. "I wouldn't say _jumped_ so much as fell in line. Gaius was very impressed."

"I'm sure he was." Merlin's smile slowly fades, and with it, Arthur's excuse for staring. He turns and busies himself filling the kettle. 

"Your Royal Highness?"

Arthur winces. He shuts the tap off, saying, "Just Arthur, please. I told you, no need for titles in your own home."

"Arthur."

"Yes?" He plugs the kettle in, retrieves the teapot from the dish drainer.

"What are you doing?"

"Making you a cup of tea." He glances over his shoulder. "At least I assume that's what you were after, dragging yourself in here. You finally wear out that damn bell?"

"No, I mean, why… " Merlin makes a vague gesture with one hand, exhaling with an audible sigh. "We haven't really talked about it, but Gaius said you know about my…um, that I'm a sorcerer?"

"Not just any sorcerer." Arthur keeps it upbeat, breezy. "I hear you're kind of a big deal…or will be one day, if you apply yourself."

"Yes, well, my point is – " He's waving both hands about now, looking peevish and rather silly, given the mittens. It's another welcome reminder of the old Merlin. "You're the Crown Prince of _Camelot_ – as in 'Victory Over Magic' Camelot. Why're you hiding out in my flat playing nursemaid? I'd assume I was under house arrest, but that doesn't explain the tea, unless it's poisoned, and…well, why you’re being so lovely to me. So _calm_. Aren't you angry?"

Tensing, Arthur turns away. He focuses on the smooth curve of the teapot in his hands, the soothing burble and hiss of steam from the kettle. So easy to break, so easy to burn. Tintagel House may be gone, but true courage, he's starting to realise, means facing up to the mending that comes after. 

The kettle clicks off. Arthur sets the teapot down. "I am," he says, reaching to unplug the kettle. "But not with you." He pours a bit of boiling water in to warm the pot and sloshes it about, then hunts down the lid and drops it in place, taking a steadying breath as he turns around. 

Merlin's eyes are huge in his face, so very solemn and blue. Arthur remembers when he'd – naïvely, cruelly – proclaimed them the only decent thing about his new valet. It seems a long time ago.

"Merlin, I can't believe you'd think, after what was done to you, after what I've _seen_ , that I – " Arthur breaks off at Merlin's slight flinch, watches helplessly as his gaze darts around the room, catching on the microwave clock before sliding off into nothing, arms pulled close to his chest. 

Arthur forces himself to relax, to speak calmly. "Merlin?"

"Mm?"

Merlin has no idea, Arthur reminds himself. No idea what he'd looked like, there in that room; no idea how devastating it's been, helping Hunith and Gaius tend to his body – watching it heal miraculously to Arthur's untrained eyes – while coming to grips with the fact that the flesh wounds are likely the least of the damage. 

And Merlin _still_ has no bloody clue, apparently, how Arthur feels about him.

"I'm angry with the people who hurt you," Arthur says. "I'm angry with my family for being such a tangled, unholy…well, 'clusterfuck' springs to mind, but that sound treasonous. Most of all, though, I'm angry with myself."

"Why?" Merlin looks at him askance. But at least he's looking again, properly looking, like before, eyes focussed and wary.

"For not having found you sooner. For getting it wrong, listening to my uncle instead of trusting my instincts that you were in danger."

"Arthur, you couldn't have known – "

"He told me you were a thief."

"What?" Merlin's eyes go wide again, brows soaring exactly like his mother's.

"When I pressed my father to involve the police, Agravaine pulled me aside, told me his suspicions – missing antiquities, rare documents. That's why he'd changed the vault codes. Said you were likely mixed up with some criminal outfit, that we'd be better off handling things in-house and praying you didn't turn up in the canal."

Arthur's prepared for hurt, confusion, even outrage, but all Merlin says is, "Oh. Oh I see," and bites his lip. "So that's what you were really doing in my flat. Searching for evidence."

"No! I didn’t believe him, Merlin, but… I told you, it was long shot, but I had no other leads at the time, no proof that you were even in trouble." Arthur gestures at the elaborate arrangement of flower-shaped biscuits. "My father joked you'd likely got soused and run off with the baker."

 _That_ gets a reaction though. Merlin flushes, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Not bloody likely," he mutters.

Arthur turns back to the tea preparations, hiding a grin. There aren't many in the palace who aren't aware of Merlin's sexuality, thanks to a May Day fiasco involving a great deal of champagne, the palace intercom, and Merlin's response to the teasing suggestion that he'd been spying on the Princess Royal and her friends during their annual streak and swim.

"Yes, well, my father's the sort who believes that no man, no matter his orientation, is ever immune to the charms of ample cleavage." Arthur hears a soft sound in response. It's not quite a chuckle, but it's close. 

As he ferries the teas things to the table, he feels Merlin's eyes on him, senses that something's shifted in his demeanour. He still seems on edge, Arthur realises, but it's not the vague jumpiness of before. There's some meat on his worry, something specific.

Curious, Arthur moves the other chair around the table so it's adjacent to Merlin's rather than directly opposite. He selects and plates a few biscuits from the arrangement, sits, and checks on the tea. Merlin's got a proper fidget on now, pulling faces and chewing his lip; if he wasn't wearing the mittens, Arthur's sure his fingers would be worrying at something.

He pours the tea, stirs sugar into one of the cups and pushes it over, angling it so Merlin can grasp it without the handle getting in the way. He waits until Merlin's taken a sip before speaking, keeping his eyes fixed on his own cup.

"Out with it, Merlin, whatever it is. Please. You needn't keep any more secrets from me." From the corner of his eye he sees Merlin wince, and wishes he'd chosen his words more carefully.

"What if I told you he was right? Your uncle, I mean. That I did steal something…but not from your vaults. And not for personal gain."

It's not at all what Arthur was expecting. He tries to mask his surprise by blowing on, then stirring a little milk into his tea before taking a sip. But he doesn't need to stall to come up with an answer; there is only one, if he's being honest.

Arthur sighs. "I'd disapprove, but trust you had a very good reason for it."

"Oh, that's…really?"

Arthur nods. Glancing over, he finds that Merlin's watching him again, the confusion and worry on his face giving way to that rare, hopeful _shining_ expression that Arthur's never quite dared take personally. 

At the moment, though, there's no one else in the room. Arthur's cheeks grow warm from the regard. He wonders if Merlin's powers allow him to read minds, or see into pockets. Everything he wants to say seems too earnest by half, and certainly too much to saddle Merlin with just yet.

He clears his throat. "Listen, you say the word and I'll be out of your hair soon as Gaius or your mum arrives to relieve me, but first I want you to know…" 

He pauses to fortify himself with another sip of tea before meeting Merlin's gaze. "I'm here because I want to be. Not to spy on or, god forbid, punish you. I have questions, yes, but they'll keep. First I need to make sure you're all right, and getting the best care the Crown can provide."

Any hope he has that Merlin will let him leave it at that dies when he sees the furrowed brow and cocked head.

"But why?" Merlin says. "Arthur, you don't owe – "

"Because," he cuts in, setting his cup down in its saucer with a decisive _snick,_ "I am, as you've pointed out on occasion, a spoilt, entitled turnip head, and I have a very spoilt, entitled need to see you smiling ag– Ah! There, you see? That's a rubbish effort. You'll have to do much better if you want any biscuits." He snags the plate and pulls it out of Merlin's reach.

"That's blackmail," Merlin protests, but Arthur knows he's won when Merlin tries to hide his mouth behind his cup of tea.

"No, that's _better_ ," Arthur says when he spots the tell-tale dimples. He selects one of the rich, buttery jam-filled biscuits Merlin's always seemed to favour, scoots his chair nearer and leans in, holding it so he can take a bite. "Open wide."

Merlin's nostrils flare as he sets his cup down, and it hits Arthur that this is wholly different from spooning up broth or porridge while Hunith bustles about or Gaius changes Merlin's dressings. He holds his breath, glares at the biscuit lest he start mooning over the pink fullness of Merlin's lips, or the way his two front teeth tilt in towards one another, just a little, as if inviting Arthur to…

"Thank you," Merlin mumbles before taking a bite. He chews, swallows. "Not just for the… For saving me, I mean, and staying after to help – for all the nights in the chair. It's…" He shuffles his cup back and forth on the table, eyes downcast. "I'm glad you're here. It's always better when you are."

"Any time," Arthur murmurs, slowly withdrawing his hand. It's not at all steady. Unsure what to do with the remainder of the biscuit, he pops it in his mouth.

Merlin glances up, eyes tracking Arthur's fingers as he brushes crumbs from his lips. "Do you really mean that?" he says quietly.

Arthur hesitates only briefly before nodding. "Yes. I know perhaps it's not the done thing, princes looking after their valets, and that you're shocked I know how to boil water all on my own, but to be perfectly honest, right now there's no place I'd rather – "

He's interrupted by the trill of his mobile. " – be," he finishes, then mouths "Percy" as he takes the call. 

Merlin's blinking at him, lips parted, a rosy flush creeping up his chest and staining his cheeks. For an idle moment Arthur worries that the fever's come back, then he realises, with a visceral thrill, that Merlin is _blushing._

He rings off with clumsy fingers, reluctantly pushing back from the table. "Your mum's on her way up, and I'm needed at the palace, so I'll just…" He stands, gesturing towards the doorway.

Merlin bites his lip, looking away. "Right. Yes."

Arthur's not taken two steps before he hears, "Tonight, though. Will you be back?" 

This times there's no hesitation. "Of course," Arthur says, glancing over his shoulder. "I've nothing much on for tomorrow, so I can stay as long as you like." 

"In the chair?"

"Wherever you want me." The words are out before Arthur can parse how they might sound. "Whatever's most convenient," he amends, red-faced, and flees to go greet Hunith.

When he returns, Merlin's asleep, but the lamps are on and there's a note waiting for him on the chair. He recognises Merlin's childish mitten scrawl.

 _INCONVENIENT_ it reads. Smiling, he looks around and eventually finds another note on the bed, slipped down beside the spare pillow: _MOST CONVENIENT. NO SHIRTS/SHOES._

* * *

**_Another Tuesday morning_**

Merlin wakes in a sweaty panic, limbs bound and prickling-numb, eyes searching for the clock but he can't fucking _see_.

"What time?" he mutters, thrashing about, trying to free himself. "What time is it?" He freezes when someone actually responds, right by his ear.

"Merlin? It's…just gone four. In the morning. Hang on."

Merlin's pulse spikes as something touches his face. Fingers, slick fabric sliding against his skin. Then suddenly he _can_ see, and he realises that it was only the eye mask, that his only bonds are a duvet, a couple of afghans…and Arthur.

Arthur who's leaning over him in a halo of lamplight with his broad shoulders and sleep-rumpled face. Arthur who's placing a large, warm hand on his chest and settling him, murmuring, "Easy now, Merlin. You're safe, back at the palace. You're all right. You're home."

 _Yes,_ Merlin thinks, looking up at the stubbled jaw and smooth cheeks, the proud nose and sleepy eyes. _Yes I am._

Someday he'll worry about how long this will last, and what the deal is with that damn brooch Arthur keeps angst-facing over, transferring from pocket to pocket – if there's a foreign royal out there to whom he's promised. 

Someday he'll show Arthur what he's got hidden in the airing cupboard back at his flat and explain that some of the old legends are real – that they can make them so, together, if Arthur wishes, regardless of whom he takes to his bed. 

But for now, Merlin simply wants to touch. He reaches one scarred palm up to Arthur's face, summoning just enough magic to bathe it in a soft golden light. It makes him squint and blink at first, face scrunched like he's caught a mouthful of bad kipper, but then a smile breaks free. Merlin traces the shape of it with his thumb before drawing Arthur's head down.

"Happy birthday," he whispers against Arthur's lips. "This is in lieu of cake."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Created as a Merlin Writers Tropes Bingo Blackout prize for Polomonkey, for the prompt: Modern au h/c Merthur where Merlin gets kidnapped by evil scientists/shady government workers and is experimented on because of his magic. And Arthur rescues him.
> 
> I invite you to check out:  
> [Polomonkey's Tropes Bingo fills](http://merlin-writers.livejournal.com/182688.html?thread=2306720#t2306720%20%20)  
> [The entire Tropes Bingo Collection here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/tropes_bingo/works)  
> [This lovely tumblr art](http://coldcigarettes.tumblr.com/post/130629557056/i-had-a-very-precise-image-in-my-mind-of-merlin) by [PuckB](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PuckB/profile) which I saw while I was working on this story, and which inspired Merlin's wild magic lightning scars.


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